In My Veins
by ragabeubeu
Summary: Sara and Michael meet differently, she's the General's daughter, so he kidnaps her to get to her father, but she's already heartbroken and wounded, and he doesn't manage to just use her and not get involved himself. Misa fic, but some Kellerman/Sara involved specially after chapter 5.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's note: **  
**So, this story was previously called Like Father Like Daughter, and I've decided to take it down for a while, and then slightly rewrite it. One of the reasons for that is that I'm French, and I'd barely just started to write in English when I wrote that story, so I decided to correct any mistake I might have made. And second, my style has also changed a lot, and since I began rewriting 'I did not sign up for this', another one of my stories, I reread this one and decided it was in need of improving. My aim is to make this more easily readable and enjoyable, so, I hope you'll enjoy it and review, and if there are mistakes in my text, please feel free to point them out. **  
**I do not own Prison Break, I just find the characters fun to play with.**  
**WARNINGS: Some characters will be different in this story, Michael and Sara for example, and there might be a little Kellerman/Sara involved, light slurring, violence and underage sex.**

CHAPTER 1

When Sara opened her eyes, she could feel that her hands had been tied together; a gag was placed over her mouth, and a blindfold covered her eyes. She could feel an acute stinging pain toward her neck area – that's when the memory of being knocked out unconscious came back to her.

She only knew too well what this was about.

She knew that her father, Jonathan Krantz, had been involved in many shady situations; truth be told, he was usually the one to start them. Sara knew exactly who her father was, without there being any confusion. She knew he was a liar, and a murderer – he was a bad person. Then, the choice had been simple, really; because she wanted to be a good person. So she'd tried to walk away from all of this, tried to live a life as normal as could be, regardless her origins; and living a normal life was a little hard, considering how often she was herself used as a pawn against her father.

More than once, she'd been through this sinister getting-kind-of-old routine; she was abducted, and then used as leverage against her father. If she hadn't experienced it herself, she would have never believed it possible that so many people aimed to blackmail the same man. She had no idea why people tended to assume she shared her father's convictions; a blood link wasn't a mental link, or any other kind for that matter.

If there was one thing Sara had learned being Jonathan Krantz daughter, this was it. Blood was just blood.

Anyway, she usually survived these "exchanges" without getting too badly hurt. Most likely, she would come home with a couple of bruises in the face – bruises always looked good on the pictures they sent her father. Although there had been this one time; she'd been used as leverage, and both her abductor and her father must have cared a great deal about whatever it was she was meant to be traded for. Because this time, it had been more than a couple of bruises. She had been twenty years old at the time, and it was the first time she was tortured to get to her father. Five years had passed since then, and there had been two similar experiences in that period.

The thing was, her father only pulled her out of these kinds of situations when he thought she couldn't manage to escape on her own. It hadn't taken long for Sara to understand that, if it was up to her, she would have nothing to do with her father; no connection whatsoever. But it wasn't up to her, and there were always people to remind her that you can't chose your family any more than you can escape it.

Sara started to struggle against her ties reflexively.

"Oh you don't want to do that." She heard a man's voice – it was scolding, but serious.

She froze; she couldn't do much until she knew a little bit more about where she was, and who had taken her, therefore she prepared herself to analyze anything she could about the environment, and her kidnappers.

"That's better," it was a different voice, also masculine. "Now, let me help you with that."

She felt two hands undoing the blindfold covering her eyes. It wasn't usually a good thing; it meant that her abductors were either wearing ski masks, or didn't care whether or not she could identify them. In that case, it was either because her father knew who he was dealing with already, or because they intended to kill her.

Her eyes shut instantly at the sudden light-exposure, and it took her a while to get used to the new environment. The first thing she saw were the two men, facing her.

One of them was tall, had an impressive musculature, and had to be twice her weight – shaved skull, green eyes, and his strong muscled arms were crossed on his chest. All in all, he looked rather intimidating; she wasn't sure she could take him down during a fight. The second man wasn't as tall as the other, the sculpted muscles of his arms were subtler, and he looked younger, too. His head was shaven as well, and his eyes were bluer than the Atlantic sea. _And obviously_, Sara noted sarcastically, _none of them are wearing ski masks._

When she was done detailing them, she looked around her; she'd been their captive for only a few minutes now, and already, she could list her first surprise: when she took a look around, they let her. She could guess she was in a warehouse, although the blinds on the windows were shut, which made her prison look grimmer.

"All right," the younger man said, approaching her. "I'm going to remove the gag if you promise you won't scream."

She nodded obediently. She was twenty five years old; she knew the drill, by now. The man ripped the duck-tape from her lips, and when she moistened them with her tongue, she tasted blood in her mouth. All right, she inwardly noted, emotionlessly; so they were the brutal kind. She could handle them, maybe, if she was somehow able to outsmart them. Given the oldest man's musculature, outsmarting them was going to be her only way out.

"Sorry about that," the young man apologized.

But he didn't look sorry. Neither of them did. Of course not, the were never sorry; because whoever it was that took her, they usually hated her father, and she was just something to extend that hate on. Plus, when you abduct the Big Bad's daughter, it means that by deduction, you're the good guy; and what could a good guy do but hate a girl like her? After all, wasn't it a bit easier for them if they hated her?

The blue eyed man spoke again, his voice placid and harsh, albeit soft. "Well, I'd introduce myself, and my brother," he said, "but I imagine it's unnecessary. Unless you haven't been watching television for the past three months."

Of course. Now she recognized them. Television, that's where she had seen them; the two brothers, Scofield and Burrows. They had been the object of the biggest manhunt ever seen in years. She couldn't help but feel a little surprised though, when she put her finger on who they were. She had no idea what her father had to do with either of those men; unless the brothers just needed money, and intended to trade the General's daughter against some ransom. Still, wasn't there an easier way to get money than that? There had to be.

Sara cleared her throat, making sure to make her face unreadable – the last thing she wanted was Scofield or Burrows to get inside her head. Not if she intended to escape.

"Well," she said, "I'd introduce myself, but I imagine it's unnecessary as well."

"It is indeed." The younger brother confirmed. "Miss Krantz."

Sara bit down on her already bloody lip. She hated being called by her father's name, it just made her hatred for Jonathan Krantz – which was already considerable – double size.

"It's Tancredi, now." She did her best to smother the anger in her tone.

Scofield didn't seem surprised at all. "Oh right," he feigned to remember. "You took your mother's name when you were eighteen."

"You know what?" She couldn't help the sparkle of challenge in her voice. "How about we skip the phase where you say all those things about me to prove that you did your homework and checked me up, huh? and if you don't mind, we can also skip the part where you tell me how my father's a monster, and how I have monster blood running in my veins, how if you were me you'd kill yourself, etcetera. If you want, we can even skip the part where you tell me what it is my father took from you and you want to get back." She sighed. "In fact, I just want to focus on the part where you tell me how long this is going to take, because I have a meeting next Friday."

The older brother arched an eyebrow before looking at his brother. Scofield just held her gaze with a grin. "Well," he said, "obviously, it isn't your first time."

"What did you think?" She arched a thin auburn brow. "The General has no siblings, both parents dead, no wife, and would you believe it? He doesn't make friends all that often. So usually, you people seem to think that the only way to get to him is by a daughter he doesn't care about."

"Yeah," Scofield said, "but you see, from what I've heard, you were raised in his company in the most secret way imaginable. No one heard from you, no one even ever knew you existed until you ran away at eighteen. Your father tried to hide you. Now, the only reason I can think of is that he loved you; that he wanted to protect you from people who could have wanted to use you against him."

She challenged. "You mean people like you?"

A sudden silence set in the room, which was only broken by the sound of a cell phone vibrating. Burrows plucked the device from his jean pocket and picked up. All he said was: "Yeah." And, "We got her." He left the room so the young woman wouldn't hear anymore.

Once they were alone, the younger brother reported his attention to her, a slight mocking smile on his lips, devoid of all humor. "Well, Sara," he sighed, and a line of feigned inquisition barred his forehead as he wondered. "Can I call you Sara?"

"Be my guest." She answered, ever as polite.

"Well then," he said, stressing on her name, "Sara, I just want it to be clear that no harm will be done to you as long as your father gives back to us what he's taken."

"My, my," she feigned curiosity, never lowering her eyes from the man's blue gaze, as though rising to the challenge. "What might that be?"

He spoke without hesitation. "You already know that."

"Right," she nodded, her grin flashing white teeth and clear sarcasm. "I forget you all think you know me – think I'm rotten to the core. Think that I know all about my father's twisted Machiavellian plans."

The young man's expression didn't change; he kept his eyes straight into hers, and the humorless smile he showed was just as merciless, although an inward appraisal seemed to be going on. In fact, short of appearing annoyed at her persistence, or angry, as she'd seen others get before him, he oddly seemed amused.

"Well," she continued, after sending a wisp of red hair behind her shoulder with a wave of head. "It's nothing like that. If I knew anything about his plans I'd tell you," she shrugged, "I'd tell anyone."

"Out of spite?" His smiled crooked slightly, and regardless of how little perceptible, he'd finally let an ounce of his reaction show, and Sara had no problem reading it – he didn't believe a word of what she'd said. His arrogance and misled knowingness showed in the single three words he'd spoken, somewhere between teasing and scolding – he wouldn't buy a thing she'd say to him during her stay.

She tensed slightly, before pursuing. "I probably hate him more than any of you ever will." Her voice was hard as steel and icy cold. "I haven't seen him in over three years, and when we actually see each other, I'm the last person he'd talk to about his plans." She smiled, entirely mirthless; in fact it was almost resentful. "We don't really have the usual father-daughter relationship. So I'm telling you again, if you think he's going to give you anything to get me back... you're mistaking."

Michael pondered on her words shortly, still assessing her with those insanely blue eyes and unwavering grin. "Well," he ultimately pointed out, "you've said it yourself. This is not your first time, and... you're still alive."

"Not thanks to him," she snorted, feeling obligated to correct him somehow – as though for anyone, even a stranger, to believe that Jonathan Krantz would give anything to rescue his beloved only child was grotesque somehow. And also, deep beneath her pride, a little bit painful. "You know," she went on, "it's really funny when you meet strangers and they think they know more about you than you do yourself." Funny was one word for it. She didn't waste any more time before she asserted. "My father won't come and save me on his white horse, if that's what you're expecting. I'm not saying you can't use me as bait, just that he won't take it."

"So, you're telling me your father never traded you for anything?" The certainty in the young man's voice made it obvious he already knew the answer.

"Depending on what the trade was," she said after a while.

Sara looked away from his blue eyes. From all the people that had taken her, there were always two kind of abductors: the kind who acts like "I'm soulless and I know it", and finally, the kind who acts like "I'm the good guy, there's only you to blame and you deserve everything that's coming at you you bitch". She hadn't classified Michael yet; for now, he didn't fit either of the categories.

"Well," Michael said, putting an end to the conversation, "I'm afraid you'll have to report that meeting on Friday."

There was also the kind who thought it was the right moment to make jokes and show their humor; they probably thought she was in the perfectly opportune mood to laugh at their jests. They were wrong.

"I'll be sure to do that," she retorted coldly.

Before he left, Scofield lowered to her height, leaning to undo the ropes that were scraping through the sensitive skin of her wrists. "Okay," he said in a tone of warning, "I'm untying you, if you try anything, and I do mean anything, you won't get a second chance and you'll spend the rest of your visit here chained to the wall, is that clear?"

"Crystal." She said as he got her rid of her ties.

He got up slowly, swift and elegant in his gestures like a feline; a few inches away from the door, he added. "You can try to run, but it won't get you anywhere. There's no way out of here that isn't closed."

He shut the heavy metal door behind him, leaving the young woman alone. Sara looked around her. The only furniture fulfilling her prison was a small bed, and another door led to a small bathroom. There were bars on all windows, and no other way out than the metal door, which was, obviously, locked.

Sara sighed before sitting on the edge of the bed, and running her fingers through her hair until both palms were rested against her temples.

Even though she couldn't really say she liked it here, it still wasn't worse than her golden cage, at her father's company. Her luxurious room, spacious, and her favorite part of it was the single window; she used to spend days sitting by the window, staring at the world outside... she used to love this place, this prison that once felt like a shelter. She hadn't always known. She hadn't always known the truth about who her father was, about the things he did.

Her hand lifted to her throat against her will, as her fingers unwillingly reached for the small locket that hung to her neck. A small silver locket, shaped as a heart; she didn't even know why she was still wearing it. She should have taken it off, ripped it off and thrown it in a dumpster seven years ago. But she hadn't, because no matter how much she wanted to ignore it, it was the only object she cared about, the only thing she couldn't leave behind or bear to part with. She didn't care so much for the object itself than for the promise that came with it. "_I know I'm not always around, I know I'm not always here to tell you, but I can promise you that right now I love you, and that it will never change, so when I'm away, you just look at that necklace, and you remember that my heart is always here with you even if I'm half the world away, you just look at it and you remember that I'll love you forever, and that this will keep us together, even if we're not_". She closed her eyes to chase away the tears, and felt her fist tightening around the locket. How could she still be wearing it, seven years after?

She lifted her face upwards, dragging in a deep breath as she let go of the necklace. What was the point in holding on to a stupid locket, what was the point in repeating herself the same promise over and over, hundreds of time, before she could finally find sleep, when the meaning of these words had died years ago?


	2. Seven Years After

**Author's note: hey, merry Christmas everybody, although I'm kind of lame, since this is a rewriting I haven't adapted my chapter to the holiday :( hope you'll enjoy it anyway, remember comments are always appreciated. **

CHAPTER 2

Sara was pulled from slumber by three loud and heavy knocks on the door, which were obviously meant to wake her. At first, she found it difficult to sleep in these situations – the kind where she was kidnapped and held hostage – but then, she must have either grown insensitive to it, or maybe just accustomed, because she slept as heavily as she did in the safety of her own apartment. She just called it 'adapting'.

The pounding continued, and she spoke, loud enough to be heard through the door. "I'm awake."

"Then go walk to the opposite side of the room and press yourself against the wall, hands above your head." The metallic door muffled the man's voice, but not beyond recognition – it was the younger brother. The one with the arrogant grin and angel eyes.

Sara sighed but didn't waste time before obeying, pressing her hands flat against the wall. "Done." She said. Then there was a short moment of silence, as if Michael was pondering whether she was honest or not. _Amateurs_. He could act as arrogant as he liked, nothing could fool her anymore – if she'd grown used to abductions, her own kidnappers certainly hadn't.

Finally, the door opened, as slowly as cautiously, and she twisted her neck towards the exit door, only to see him point a 9mm at her. She wasn't really intimidated by guns anymore; she was actually so used to them the image automatically came with the thought of an empty threat.

"All right," Michael said, his pistol aimed straight at her, as if he had just entered the cage of a tiger. "Now, I want you to slowly go sit on the bed."

"Why?"

The corner of his lips crooked into a smirk. "I want to get a clear shot at you."

She turned away slowly and sat on the edge of the bed, resisting the urge to roll her eyes.

"Good," he said, visibly satisfied as he put the gun away.

She couldn't help but smile, as some sort of inward knowing victory_. Empty threat._

The older brother didn't waste anytime before joining Scofield inside the room. His own fire weapon was hanging from his belt, obviously there for her to see. "All right, Miss Krantz," Lincoln said, "here's what I'm going to do." He pulled his cell phone out of his jacket pocket, made a whole show out of it too. "I'm going to dial your father's number, and then I'll put the phone to your ear. That's the part where we'll need your cooperation."

"Okay," she commented, unable to hold back a smile. "Well, first of all you don't have to hold the cell to my ear, I know how to telephone, and second of all, regardless of how much I would love to play the little girl lost in the woods act to my father, I doubt that it would be really useful."

"Yeah," Michael said, "well you know, as much as you don't want to believe it, Sara, I think your father loves you, and I think he's going to give us just what we want. Any father would."

"And unfortunately for you," she replied, "he's not any father. What is it you want from him?"

"We're not going to tell you that," Lincoln spoke hurriedly, almost insulted.

"Okay." She said, agreeably. "All I'm saying is that unless you're asking for a reasonable amount of money, he won't give you a thing, and that's only because money doesn't really matter to him, so if you want anything else, I rather warn you that he might be reluctant."

"Well," Lincoln considered, "there's a chance that the sound of his daughter screaming from pain will change his mind."

_Again_, she thought_, empty threat_.

"Well, that's a good idea," she replied annoyed, "why don't you ask that to the ones who already tried?"

Burrows waited a moment before visibly deciding that he wouldn't answer that. His brother continued instead. "Well, Miss Krantz," Michael said, "it's not that we're not interested in your opinion, but we'll still be making the phone call. And I need to know you'll cooperate."

She sighed, as though plainly annoyed by this whole thing. "Sure. Just don't make me put on the 'I love you daddy' act. He won't buy it and I hate to fake."

"All you have to do is say something," Lincoln muttered in a tone that probably aimed to sound authoritarian, then he put his phone on speaker after quickly dialing a number, and handed it to Sara.

She recognized her father's voice immediately, not completely startled by the fact that it made her sick to her stomach. "Burrows, you're really getting desperate."

"Yeah," Sara confirmed coldly, "he has."

She heard her father sigh in the receiver, a bit as though this whole situation had gotten so familiar to both of them that he was now more tired than concerned. "Sara," he said, "put whoever's holding a gun to your head on the phone."

She couldn't help but snort in irritation. "Like I'm taking orders from you."

"Give me the phone, Sara." Michael interrupted, and the young woman sighed before complying.

Jonathan Krantz's tone hadn't changed one bit. "I don't know if you think you have me trapped here, Scofield." Her father was now addressing to the younger brother, but Sara could still follow the conversation. He went on, almost casual. "If you're hoping you've put your hand on the key to your freedom, I hate to disappoint you, she won't get you anywhere. She doesn't know anything."

"I don't need her to," Michael spoke confidently, "I'd rather see you turn yourself in, give the police the evidence that proves you've framed my brother, so that you can rot in prison and my brother and I can both walk free. Because if that isn't done by the end of the week, seven days from now exactly, I'm going to kill your daughter"

Sara stared at the two brothers, halfway between startle and weariness; well then, she supposed she was as good as dead. There wasn't a thing in this world for what her father would be able to give up in freedom; and if there ever was, it certainly wouldn't be her.

She heard the old man sigh – almost as weary as her. "Somehow, Scofield, I don't think you're going to do that."

"Think again," Michael retorted, without anger but serious enough. "So many people have died under your orders, friends, family, children," he enumerated before marking a short pause, probably to mark the impact of his following words. "Why would your daughter's life be worth to me any more than theirs?"

A short silence settled in, and for a second, Sara noticed that it made the air seem chillier, as though everyone in the room was unconsciously holding their breath – everyone but her. She'd done this dance before, she knew how it went, how it ended; and it wasn't until her father spoke again that she actually realized, she'd hoped. "All right," he ultimately said. "I'm calling your bluff."

"Excuse me?"

"Kill her." He spoke with no other emotion than faint boredom. "Trust me, Scofield, I would fear for my daughter's life if I believed she was in the hands of professionals, not a decent ex-citizen and engineer who faked his way into prison, and a falsely coldhearted thug who didn't even have the nerves to pull the trigger on someone he believed to be a scumbag drug dealer. No, I must admit, I'm not particularly concerned for Sara at the moment."

The older brother – Burrows, Sara recalled obliviously – scowled with the subtleness of an upset bulldog. Anger and irritation crept into his voice as came another threat – another _empty_ threat, Sara had never been more sure of it than now. "Keep going like this, General. Just keep it going like this and she'll go through so much pain she'll beg to die."

The reply came right away. "Now, that's very intimidating, Lincoln. I don't mean to hurt your feelings, perhaps had you practiced for this? Seriously now, do you not think I know my own daughter? I built her tougher than that. I raised her better than that. I believe that she'll be able to stand whatever it is you have in store for her."

Neither of the brothers replied for a short moment, and Sara rolled her eyes with irritation; she personally would have preferred for wolves to raise her, at least they might have shown a bit of loyalty – but as much as she hated her father at that moment, she hated even more this tiny bit of hope that had crawled deep inside of her, down to the last second. She knew how this went. She knew it very well. The only thing that remained a mystery to her was: how many years until she stopped inwardly and traitorously hoping that she'd make her father change his mind?

The General went on, and his voice was making Sara nauseous again. "So, if I haven't made things clear enough, let me start over. I suggest that you set my daughter free right now, because I won't give you anything for her. Or, you can follow your plan and hold her hostage for a week before you kill her. You can call me soulless," he added, "I'm calling your bluff."

Michael dragged in a deep breath, visibly furious. "Do not underestimate me, Jonathan. I'll go as far as I need to go to make you pay for your crimes, one way or another."

"Don't make it sound like I'm questioning your honor, Scofield. I don't doubt that you're an admirable young man." Except there was an unspoken following to that sentence, Sara could read it clear as water through the silence. '_An admirable young man who wouldn't sacrifice a puppy for the greater good if he had to end the animal's life himself_.'

The younger brother clenched his teeth before stating. "You'll regret this."

The General didn't answer. "Send Sara my love," he simply said before ending the conversation.

The brothers remained immobile long after silence had fallen upon the room. Sara didn't move either, only her thoughts were occupied by a different matter than theirs – because the thing about her father was, he did get her out of similar situations. Sometimes. But he only did so when he considered she couldn't get out of it herself, which she had; each time he left her the courtesy of saving her own life, she always managed, as he knew she would. Because to be honest with herself, and it was perhaps the most twisted side of their relationship, he actually loved her; in the way he conceived love. He could leave her to be tortured for days, weeks, and still believe that he was making the right decision because she would make it out alive – after all, she had never proved him wrong before. If she ever did though, she thought bitterly, it would only take once. And she would love it; part of her knew that too. She would love for him to leave her helpless one time too much and for it to be lethal – she wouldn't be there to enjoy his reaction, but she assumed she might die happy to the single thought of it.

The thought of Jonathan Krantz being proven wrong.

The point was, this was always a determining moment for Sara; because from this moment on, she knew whether she'd have to fool Burrows and Scofield in order to escape or simply wait for rescue – from this moment on, she knew what the plan would be. Because her father still cared, and always would; therefore if he had left her in this mess, it meant that she could get out of it.

...

Michael and Lincoln had left to discuss things she probably wasn't allowed to hear; for example, the fact that neither of them knew what they were doing.

Though now, after all this time, her father's actions were becoming quite clear; everything he did, everything he let others do to her – if his design was once ever so slightly obscure, it was getting impossible not to see it, now. And he wanted her to see it; it was part of the plan.

It was punishment.

Everything that her father had ever let her go through, the beating, the extreme situations, when he held the key to her freedom; when all he'd have to do was make a call for her abductors to let her go – punishment. Punishment for running away, seven years ago, punishment because as soon as she had realized who he really was, what he did, and what was going on inside that company, she had run. Away from all of it, away from everything she'd ever known.

And beneath her hatred and how cold it had made her, part of her wished she hadn't. Part of her wished she never saw what she'd seen that night, part of her wanted to take it all away; to go back. To go back to _HIM_. She knew _HE_ would have an explanation, _HE _would have an excuse and _HE _would make her believe. And sometimes, when the loneliness got too bad, when the locket around her neck seemed to be too heavy to bear, she almost wished he would.

Sara's hand automatically flew to her necklace – it had become some sort of reflex, really; to reach out to it during the hard times, when it felt like her world was crumbling down. She figured maybe it gave her strength; courage. Or maybe, in some way, she still blindly believed in _its_ promise.

Bittersweet memories, the locket and the promise that accompanied it; it was all she had taken with her, when she'd left. It was planned, she knew it; _HE_ was planned, she knew that too, because it was the only thing that made sense – and still, she couldn't help but think that maybe, if once _HE_ had just come knocking on her door and begged for her forgiveness… She would have made the same mistakes all over again.

And _HE_ was the reason why she could never forgive her father; she had many reasons to hate Jonathan Krantz, but _HE_ was the greatest one. Because her father had made her fall in love with a man that didn't exist. And seven years after, seven long years of living half alive, and she still reached out to his promise when she was sad, or scared; that was the reason why she would never forgive. Because after all this time, she realized that she still needed _HIM, _and probably always would. As if somehow, this promise had been _HIS_ way of telling her that it had all been real, that no matter what would happen later on, it had been real for _HIM_ too. _HIS_ way of telling her that, no matter what, she was never alone.

She was sad, hurt, lost – oh, so lost since he'd gone – but she wasn't alone.

Never.

The heavy metallic door opened again, without warning this time, and the younger brother – Michael – entered, alone.

"What?" Sara said, a hint sarcastic. "You're going to send him a finger?"

She scolded herself in her mind; why was she giving them tips? She mentally slapped herself though Michael didn't comment. He simply sat on the bed, next to her, and for a reason she was absolutely incapable of defining, his proximity didn't feel intruding or even surprising. Cautious nonetheless, the young women detailed him for a short while, but he didn't seem to be carrying a gun or even any sort of weapon; almost as though they were oddly standing equal to equal.

"Well," he exhaled calmly, "we have a problem, Miss Krantz."

She let out a chuckle, entirely humorless, and she kept her eyes fixedly set on the wall. It was easier that way; her abductors, whether they were polite or despising, hesitating or ruthless, it didn't make a difference – she never looked them in the eye.

She responded dryly. "If you're going to call me that, am I to call you Mr. Scofield? Or master?"

The last part of her sentence was meant to be sarcastic, but Michael hardly seemed in the mood for jokes; yet instead of losing his patience, he simply sighed once more in irritation, as though to show he wasn't happy to be doing this on her terms – but complying nonetheless. "Fine, Sara." He consented, insisting on her name. "We're in a bit of a predicament."

"Not exactly." She disagreed. "You're in a bit of a predicament, I'm simply leverage."

"Maybe. But I'm getting the feeling you're not your father's biggest fan." He didn't need to be a genius to know that, still he stirred a bit of her attention. "I was hoping you and I could make a deal."

She clenched her jaw, put ice in her voice. "When people want my help, they don't usually kidnap me." It was a lie.

His annoyance was audible when he answered. "I'm sorry," he stated still, and. "I didn't have much of a choice."

"Asking politely works pretty good."

Impatience finally pierced through the young man's placidity, Sara noticed – he burst, didn't snap. "Well, I thought it would be easier than this. I thought all I'd have to do is _mention_ you, and your father would plead and do anything we said."

Sara couldn't repress a slight burst of laughter, as though unable to resist the urge to mock one's particular naivety. "I'm sorry, have you _met_ him? Did you actually expect him to be the hugging fatherly type."

"Then what type is he?"

"Why do you care?" She retorted on the same tone, as though to rise to the challenge – maybe just to scratch through the surface of his golden boy attitude.

"Look," he spoke without an ounce of amusement. "I –" He opened his mouth with what seemed to be the greatest will in the word to talk, yet his capacity of speech seemed to momentarily fail him, and nothing came out.

He wasn't particularly happy about this; in fact, he wasn't happy about any of this. First, because he didn't know what to add but liked to have the last word, and second, because absolutely nothing in this whole thing had gone according to plan. And Michael Scofield was the kind of man who liked for things to go smoothly, without surprises; that's who he was, and what his brother had often called him, as a joke. The man with a plan.

But he hadn't planned on Jonathan Krantz almost literally sneering to their faces; he hadn't planned on finding himself stuck in a rented warehouse with his panicking brother and a female hostage. To be completely honest, he hadn't planned said hostage to be the way she was either – perhaps, it troubled him as much as the rest. Michael wasn't aware he'd even thought of the way she'd be at all, until after he met her; he wasn't completely sure of what he was expecting either. A damsel in distress, maybe? She was turning out to be anything but.

He sighed and went on, a little calmer. "Look, I don't have that many options here. What I'm doing right now, this here – it's my last option."

She shrugged, visibly still in the _not-my-problem_ attitude. "You could still kill me at the end of the week."

"That won't bring me my freedom back."

Sara smirked, almost unconsciously as she said. "At least he would have been wrong."

"Your father?" Michael prompted, but she kept quiet and he went on. "Do you often picture it? Getting killed because of him?"

"Would that be so wrong?" She wondered, and looked him in the eyes for the first time since he had sat next to her. "To imagine him leaving me to rot in one of these places, as he did thousands of times, for him to think that I'd manage out but being –" She pondered on the word shortly. "Undeceived?" _Proven wrong_.

She had thought of it more than once, actually; that, one day, her father would leave her to be tortured to death. That he'd regret it for the rest of his life. She wanted him to feel like he would never laugh or smile again, to feel like the best years of his life had gone by, she wanted him to feel betrayed and cheated, as she had felt once. Seven years ago. Then the question popped in, inevitable – how would _HE_ feel if she died?

"I understand," Michael finally spoke. "Frankly, I think it happens to everyone, every once in a while. To picture our own funeral. All the people who've done you wrong regret it, feel the guilt and the shame, and those who cared about you wish they had said it, too late." He paused for a second. "I can understand that you might have thought of it more than the average."

Sara lowered her eyes, as though realizing that they'd been set on his for too long – she knew what he was doing. Talking, trying to relate to her – she wasn't sure in what purpose yet exactly, but she'd figured reluctance was the safest way to greet it. "Yeah," she spoke, neither cold or dry but somehow restraining. "Well, after giving it more thought I decided that if he was going to be in my life whether I liked it or not, it'd be a bit stupid to make my death about him too."

Michael nodded in comprehension – he understood. Understood that she wasn't going to let him any closer to her than that, emotionally speaking. "Okay," he spoke agreeably, "I'll just say this. I want my freedom back more than anything in the world, but not if it's going to make me undeserving of that freedom. Your father knows that, and that's why he knows that I won't hurt you." He waited a second, as though slightly hesitating, Sara noticed; almost the way a man tries to flirt with you, but isn't quite sure of how to explicitly demonstrate his intentions. "But there is another way for us to do this, Sara."

She cleared her throat and exhaled. "I'm not sure why you've started using the word 'we', but I have a feeling I'm not going to like it too much."

"He could pay." Michael said, and noted the impact of his words on the young woman's face; she could act as cold and indifferent as she wanted, he decided as he observed – she couldn't lie with her eyes. He went on. "Your father could pay for everything he's done, he doesn't need to surrender, we can get the evidence ourselves."

"What evidence?" She spoke, annoyed. "You seem to forget the fact that I don't know anything about my father's business. Actually, until this morning, I thought your brother was guilty."

Michael couldn't help but sound a bit upset. "Well, he isn't. Look, I need you to work with me on this. There's something, an evidence that could prove your father's guilt, it could expose every single one of his crimes. It's a device called Scylla; it's in his possession at the moment, but if we could it back, then this could all be over." He repeated, speaking slowly and low. "We don't need him to surrender, Sara. All we need to do is get that device and get this over with."

"And yet I fail to see how I'm a part of that."

"Well," Michael snorted, "obviously he won't let just anyone near it, but you – you're not just anyone to him, Sara, you never will be regardless of how much effort you put into it. You could earn his trust, you could –"

"It's never going to happen." She stated without looking at him again.

The seriousness and determination in her tone made him silently for a few seconds; he blinked a couple of times before he managed. "Why not? You hate your father, why won't you work with us –"

She snapped. "Because I'm not a little pawn you can all throw at each other hoping the bomb sets off. I'm not involved in anything bad or criminal, I'm not linked to any of this by anything other than blood, and I'm tired of being used and mistreated for crimes I didn't commit." She let out a slow breath, ragged by anger. "Why won't you all stop involving me in plans that I'm not a part of?"

Almost as if her words had set him on fire, the young man got up brutally; she hadn't planned on how angry he'd be. His tone didn't hide a bit of his frustration. "Very well, Miss Krantz. Suit yourself."

He didn't even turn around before he shut the heavy door behind him, and the rattle of the lock closing made Sara feel oddly claustrophobic; the noise was almost sinister when Michael locked her in. Then he switched off the lights from the corridor and shut the blinds on the small window, on the door.

She was left in the complete dark.

Whether her eyes were opened or closed made no difference, and the darkness seemed to absorb every bit of her – piece by piece. The darkness wasn't to be underestimated, she knew. Darkness could drive a person insane. The fear, the unyielding blackness almost felt material now, and she could sense its weight – she could feel it, trying to get inside of her, to nest into her core, inside her veins.

There was already so much darkness running in her veins.

Time passed, but nothing changed; she wasn't sure how to simply be alone in the dark could feel this terrible. It made her feel as though nothing made sense. After a few hours, she started thinking, and her thoughts began to dance in front of her eyes like animated memories, bright with their colors and vivacity but slowly fading away in her eyes, like embers growing dim. The visions seemed so clear but she had to wonder whether her eyes were even open – perhaps was she dreaming? She didn't care, then, because she started thinking about _HIM_, and he appeared to her, as real as he was in her arms.

He looked exactly the same as when she had last seen him, thick black hair, cold blue eyes and a slight beard darkening his cheeks. She smiled at the need to touch him, as though to want him badly enough would make him be here, for real – as if any of it had ever been real. He smiled at her, and she imitated him, unaware, reaching out for his face with her hand, aiming to graze his lips with her fingertips.

Before she could reach him, she blindly realized her eyes were shut and she opened them obliviously before a warning could will her not to. And then he had disappeared, as quick as he'd come; suddenly there was nothing left, he was gone, there were no colors, and everything was black again.

She felt the loneliness. She felt the emptiness. But the locket hanging to her neck like the rope of a hanged man reminded her painfully, knotting her throat with bitterness, that regardless of who was or wasn't around, she wasn't alone.

She was never alone.


	3. Don't Open Your Eyes

'_Some people live with the fear of a touch, and the anger of having been a fool. They will not listen to anyone so nobody tells them a lie. Some people see through the eyes of the old, before they ever get a look at the young. I'm only willing to hear you cry because I am an innocent man.'_

_Billy Joel_

**THREE YEARS EARLIER**

Sara was sitting in her father's office; one his many offices. The simple room made her nauseous, the smell of scotch, the ridiculously luxurious room. She heard her father sigh before he sat in front of his desk, facing her. She kept her eyes set on the wall; she'd feel even sicker if she looked at him, but she wouldn't lower her eyes to him either.

"What am I going to do about you, Sara?"

She didn't answer and kept her eyes as far away from him as possible, as though trying to avoid the memory of all those times she'd sat in an office similar to this one, in her teenage years.

"You're 22 years old." He stated. "And in the four years where you've been gone, all you did was get yourself into trouble."

"Oh." She managed. "_I_'m getting myself into trouble?" Her voice was softer than her whisper. The hatred was too deep for it to simply make her raise her tone.

Jonathan Krantz smile, entirely mirthless. "Well, Sara, I would guarantee you safety, but you won't let me help you."

"I'd rather end up killed in some stupid exchange than to go back. Maybe these people will at least get something out of you."

"It would be so much simpler for both of us if you would just come back home."

She stared back into his eyes, serious as hell. "If you take me back, I'll kill myself."

He chuckled without amusement or humor. "You can pretend as much as you like Sara, but we both know you're not much different from the stubborn teenage girl you were. It doesn't look to me like you've escaped your past at all."

She didn't answer. The locket around her neck seemed to weight a ton, and the words escaped her before she could think of preventing them. "Did you know about Paul?" The heart-shaped locket seemed to burn the skin of her collarbone.

Her father burst into a frank laughter, and the sound of it seemed to freeze her to the bone. "It still works you up, after all this time?" He sounded genuinely amused and mocking – his repayment for her previous refusal to his proposition, no doubt. He answered shamelessly. "You needed motivation, Sara. You needed something to care about, something you'd care too much about to leave behind. Of course I knew."

**PRESENT DAY**

Sara woke up almost instantly when the lights were switched on, and a gasp escaped her as she tore through her dream; it took her a while to get used to the sudden brightness. Then she heard the younger brother's voice echo through the metal door. "Put your hands on the wall, Miss Krantz."

Oddly, it almost felt reassuring to realize she wasn't inside her father's fancy office, but locked up inside some warehouse. "Good morning to you too," she mumbled to herself, before obeying the young man's request.

The door opened loudly and Michael only took a couple of steps inside the room before he laid a plastic tray on the ground; he pushed it further away his foot and closed his hand on the door again. "Enjoy breakfast." The coldness in his tone and the fact that he shut the door without adding anything else put Sara under the impression that he was still mad about their previous conversation.

She sighed wearily before looking down at her 'breakfast', and her surprise was such she burst into laughter. Pizza. Was this guy for real? She wasn't exactly used to quality food during hostage situations, still fast food was _undoubtedly_ a first. Before she started to eat, she sorted out the little pieces of ham that were on her meal. Sometimes, she wondered whether she was a vegetarian by conviction or simply to annoy her abductors.

Once she was done eating she cautiously headed towards the shower; the water was barely warm and she shuddered when it hit her skin. She didn't linger in the cabin; she never did since the one time her kidnapper had walked in on her, purposefully, she was certain of it. from this day, she had done her best to cut short showers or any other state of nudity whatsoever. Though that Scofield guy didn't really fit the profile – he didn't exactly look like a pervert.

Better safe than sorry.

Hadn't she learned that the hard way?

She put her on her clothes, hating herself just a little bit when she knotted the locket around her neck, knowing that if she possessed one once of common sense she'd throw it in the trash. Before, she might have had an excuse to keep it, when she didn't know; when she wasn't sure what to think after her discovery concerning her father's business. But three years ago, after Jonathan Krantz had confirmed her doubts – she should have burned the necklace. _HE_ had been part of the plan. _HE_ had been paid to distract her, when all she wanted, as any teenager would have, was to go out and see the world, to fly away from that golden cage – _HE_ had made her stay. And she had wanted to leave; she remembered begging her father for just one minute on the outside, just a moment to feel the cold blow of the wind, the sight of the outside world. She had begged _HIM_, too. Back then, of course, she thought their love affair was forbidden, she thought that _HE_ was just another one of her father's employee, and that _HE_ put himself in danger every time _HE_ sneaked inside her bedroom. It wasn't exactly appropriate to be doing the boss's daughter. Even she could feel that it had to be wrong in some way, because she was seventeen and _HE_ neared thirty years old, but she was so _crazy_ about _HIM_. She thought _HE_ was too. She really did.

They'd spent close to two years together before she ran away, and back then despite how long it'd been she was still at the silliest and craziest stage love can get; _HE_'d come to see her at night and stay until morning, and every night she'd fight sleep to get to see _HIM_ just a little bit longer. Because then daylight came, and she had to pretend _HE_ was just a stranger – just a normal appropriate history teacher.

She'd felt so safe in his arms.

And _HE_ was just so different from her, so grownup and serious while she laughed and smiled over absolutely anything, far from being shy. And yet in some way, it felt as though they were very much alike – both prisoners of their own identities. She'd loved him to distraction. She'd been young and naïve and indescribably in love with _HIM_. And she'd been so, so easy to fool.

Even now, years after she'd run away, sometimes she awoke at night and almost expected to wake up in her former quarters, in this luxurious golden-sheeted bed, in _HIS_ arms, and it would almost feel as though she hadn't escaped him at all. She couldn't help herself from thinking of him, at least thirty seconds every day; where _HE_ was, what _HE_ was doing. If someone was with _HIM_. Because she'd loved HIM, more than anything; probably as much as she'd hated _HIM_ since. Him and his necklace – god knew how pathetic that thing made her feel. She knew that she'd never been anything more than another job to HIM, and perhaps for that she should have been a bit more forgiving – he was just a man who'd done his job, she knew that in the end. But he'd been cruel, too. He'd talked about a future he knew they wouldn't have, and described a love in poetry that he knew wasn't there. He'd become pervasive, the way a Christian worships God or fears the Devil.

Maybe to her, _HE_ was both at a time.

He didn't have to make her fall in love this bad. He didn't have to make it so, after seven years, she still thought of him every day, like a bad habit, or an empty prayer.

The young gasped when the door suddenly burst open, and Michael strode inside the room, alone, visibly in a hurry.

"What the –"

He banned the words from her lips by pressing a finger to them. "Don't talk." He ordered, then kneeled and made her lower along with him so that the were both crouching on the ground, their back pressed against the wall, just beneath the sealed windows.

For a moment, everything was silent, and Sara was about to pull away and stand up when the blinds were suddenly lifted from outside, and a ray of light pierced through. Two fingers were slid between the blinds. Someone was watching. Sara's blood ran cold immediately – she wasn't sure who was there, searching for her, but it certainly wasn't her father. Michael and her remained pressed tightly against the wall, curled up in the darkness, invisible from the outside. At least, she hoped so. The young man let out a silent sigh of relief as the blinds were put back in place, but he still waited a few seconds before releasing his grip on Sara.

"I'm sorry about that. But trust me, whoever's out there –" He didn't get time to finish his sentence before bullets started flying from outside. He threw himself on Sara before she could react, pinning her to the ground before they both started crawling towards the exit door. After that, Michael gripped at her arm and led her through places of the warehouse she'd never seen before.

They escaped by the back door and he dragged her out of the warehouse, his grip on her arm so tight she was certain it would leave marks. He basically threw her in the backseat of the truck before he got in, locking every door behind him. Then, he started to drive away, probably faster than legally allowed. "You told me that your father wouldn't come for you!" He yelled.

"He didn't." She retorted. "He'd never send people to get me so fast!" Not without letting her simmer inside her prison to make sure she'd learn her lesson.

"Forget it," Michael said, visibly furious. "I can't believe I even listened to you."

"Great. Don't listen to me; do whatever you goddamn like, see if I care."

He didn't answer, he just cursed under his breath as he grabbed his cell phone, holding the wheel with one hand. "Linc," he spoke as hastily as possible, "I'm so glad I could reach you. _Do not_ go back to the warehouse. I just left, Krantz had his men all over the place."

Sara exhaled a sigh, without bothering to intervene.

"No," Michael responded to whatever it was his brother had said to him. "No, we're going to the cabin, just meet us there. Yeah, I know. Me too." Then he was hanging up and shoving his phone back inside his pocket, and slamming his fist against the wheel.

Sara remained silent, spying on him through the rearview mirror until she met his blue gaze, and lowered her eyes instantly. Those cold blue eyes reminded her far too much of _HIS_.

...

Sara awoke when the car brutally parked. The sky had gotten dark, although she had no idea how late it was. "Are we there yet?" She asked.

"No, it'll take a couple more days."

"_Days_?" She couldn't help but echo, and he glared at her through the rearview mirror.

"A comment you'd like to share, Miss Krantz?"

She clenched her teeth, irritated, but said nothing. She noticed he had parked at the edge of a forest, and the car was dark enough not to be in need of any camouflage. She watched Michael undo his seatbelt, and the sudden movement made her acknowledge the stain of red on the sleeve of his white shirt.

"You're hurt." She observed.

"The bullet just grazed me." He answered emotionlessly, then opened the glove box to grab some duck-tape.

"You're kidding." She stated.

"I'm making sure you don't skip out on me," he corrected, and ordered. "Stay still." She sighed in frustration but obeyed as he tied her hands behind her back, then bound her legs together tightly with a thick layer of tape, tearing the end with his fingers. "That should do it." She couldn't determine whether he sounded teasing or just bitter. "Sleep tight."

…

_"Don't I get to open my eyes?" The young girl spoke with a childish smile. Sara was back there in a second, back inside the body of her seventeen year-old self. Back to that night. She could feel __HIS__ body behind hers, one hand locked across her stomach tightly, the other pressed over her eyelids, preventing her from cheating the rules. "Don't you trust me, Paul?" She wondered, teasingly serious. _

_She felt his hot breath tingle her neck as his mouth grazed her earlobe. The ghostly sensation of her memory was as real as if it had been real. He answered on the same tone as her, only he whispered, as though sharing a secret somehow. "I don't trust anyone." _

_Sara could have slapped the young girl, the teenage version of herself, or shaken her and told her to wise up, if it hadn't felt so comfortable and cozy, laced in the crook of __HIS__ arms. Perhaps, in those dreams, the most painful was to look at that girl, naively happy, then wake up and realize – she really was dead and gone. _

_HE spoke in her ear again, removing the hand blindfolding her altogether. "Surprise." _

_The girl remained speechless, incapable of even forming a mere response. It was the first time she ever stepped foot outside the base, outside the quarters her father had raised her in since birth. She figured Paul must have taken her out the back door not to arise suspicion, though at the moment she didn't really care how he had done it – the sight she discovered chased away all the rest, and she stared in amazement, like a child who sees the ocean for the first time. She was probably the only teenager to be dazzled by something so common; a street at night, lightened up by streetlights and billboards, shining like thousands of suns in the sky. Closed stores. Cinemas. Cars of all colors rolling by – red; green; blue. She looked higher and discovered the moon, fuller than she had ever seen it now that it wasn't encumbered by the frame of her window – and it was wonderful, she discovered. To simply look at the sky and see. _

_She felt Paul wrap a second arm around her, holding her tenderly before he pressed a kiss to her cheek. "It's so beautiful." She breathed, her eyes still riveted on the sky. "Why don't people notice it's beautiful?"_

_"I'll take you to Rome, one day." He promised. "The sight out there – it's the second most beautiful thing I've seen in my life." _

_She twisted her neck to meet his eyes. "What's the first one?" She asked, and the only answer she obtained was his gaze, insistently fixed on her, and it made her laugh._

_The childish sound of her laughter echoed through her brain, vibrating through her memory. Dead, but alive. The voice of her long dead ghost, which made her awaken in cold sweat. Her hands and feet were duck-taped, and she breathed in the scent of nature through the slightly opened windows, the sight of trees and plants dazzling her slightly in a blurred shade of green. It took her a few seconds to remember where she was. Oddly enough, the scent and sight of wilderness outside the window almost looked like freedom. _

_Daylight was slowly rising, and Sara caught a glimpse of the sun through the car's window, reigning low in the sky. The road they were on seemed deserted, and it somehow increased the young woman's disorientation. "Uh…" She uttered to her jailer's attention. "Now that we're both awake, would you mind untying me?" _

_"Can't." He answered coldly. "For that I'd have to pull over, and I feel like you've made us waste enough time."_

_She lowered her eyes, inwardly determining this was going to be a long ride. "It wasn't my father out there." She spoke. _

_She wasn't expecting Michael to answer, but he surprised her. "Then who was it?" He asked, a few seconds later._

_Sara hesitated shortly. "I don't know. But my father wouldn't have pulled me out of here so fast, if he was even going to try to retrieve me at some point. He wouldn't waste the chance to let me rot there with my own thoughts." _

_"Why not?" _

_Michael's tone surprised her, somehow. Not caring, but not careless either. _

_She answered after a while. "Because I won't go back to him. I never will, and he can't change that, so he leaves me hanging in situations like this one to make me change my mind. To make me understand that, if I'd chosen to return to him, I wouldn't be going through this." _

_Michael's eyes met hers through the rearview mirror before he slowly guided them back to the road. "Then when will he get you?" He asked. _

_She shrugged, only half joking. "You gave him, what? Seven days before you kill me? I'd say he'll wait eight days before trying something."_

_"Then if your father didn't come for you, Miss Krantz, the question remains: who did?"_

_Sara chuckled without amusement, as she started rubbing the slightly bruised flesh of her wrists. "What makes you so sure they came for me?" She said; Michael didn't answer, but his eyes followed her movements through the mirror, setting onto the pink aureoles that had started to form around her wrists. She caught his eyes on her. "Don't worry, it's not your fault. I struggle in my sleep."_

_"I noticed." Was all he said before permanently setting his eyes back on the road, putting an end to the conversation. _

…

"This is going to sting a bit."

They had stopped the car for a while near the woods again. Sara spread disinfectant on her abductor's bullet wound, and he neither flinched or winced at the contact. "I guess you being a doctor is rather convenient after all." He said.

"It sounds silly, doesn't it?"

"Why should it?"

She first decided she wasn't going to answer him, then reckoned that given she was stitching him up without pain killers, she might as well entertain the conversation. "To become a doctor, in my situation." She specified. "People hate me from the second they hear my name, that makes it a bit stupid to make it my job to help them, doesn't it?"

He didn't answer for a second, before ultimately stating. "All people aren't like that."

She kept her eyes set on his injury as she answered. "Well, I'm stitching you up, aren't I?"

He thought of it a second. "Well, if it comforts you, we'll say that I made you. Let's say I swore to kill you if you didn't do it."

Sara smiled slightly – that would make it better, perhaps. To just be a normal girl trying to stay alive, instead of hoping to end up killed one of these days so that her father would realize he actually gave a damn – so that _HE_ would at least notice.

Michael cleared his throat before he spoke again. "Then why did you become a doctor?" He lowered his eyes at her silence. "I apologize. I shouldn't have asked."

"No, it's fine." She assured, and cleared her throat as well before she answered. "Do you know what you have to do when there's venom in your blood? Purge the wound to try to remove the poison from your veins."

Even though she chose to elaborate, she knew she could have left it at that – perhaps this alone illustrated her reason better than anything else ever could.

"I didn't always know who my father was," she said, "I grew up in a different world than yours, and mine had rules and boundaries of its own. I was told that my dad was an important man, and that people would try to hurt me to get to him if they could. I didn't really give much thought to who he was – one day, it simply burst right in front of my face. I ran away, but there wasn't a distance in the world that could make me somebody else. You and others reminded me of it frequently. In the end, the pain he caused was too tremendous for me to make much of a difference – there aren't enough good deeds I can accomplish to make up for my father's wrongs."

Nothing whatsoever that could remove the poison from her veins.

"It's like bad seed or something," she finished, still focused on his injury.

She only looked up once she was done stitching him up, and his blue eyes captured hers immediately. "Whatever your father does," he spoke, "it has nothing to do with you."

She stayed quiet for less than a second. "But I sure as hell am paying for his debts, aren't I?"

His eyes remained peaceful onto hers. Oddly, it didn't feel as though her comment was aiming at him. He smiled slightly. "You know, you're not at all how I pictured you. I'd seen pictures of you," he specified, "but – you're very different from what I thought you would be."

"You expected a mini-Krantz, blindly defending the company's doing?"

"It would have been easier."

"Yeah?" She retorted. "Are you anything like your parents?"

He didn't unhook her eyes from her, which made it her longest eye-contact for a long, long time. "Well," he spoke with surprising seriousness, "maybe there's a way we can all learn from this."

She chuckled, maybe only to break the intensity of the moment. "Speak for yourself." She said, "I've done this dozens of times. I don't see what could be different now." She held his gaze for one more second before she lowered her eyes and cleared her throat. "Well, you're all stitched up." She suddenly felt slightly embarrassed about the instant they had both shared, and she sat back quietly in her seat while he regained his own and started the car.

As they began rolling again, Sara let her eyes stray to the window, watching the green-pervaded landscape flash before her eyes. She'd been a prisoner all her life. For the first eighteen years of her life inside her father's golden cage, and then during the seven following, but in a different way. Nothing luxurious this time. No beautiful liar to breathe soft whispers into her ears. This time, her prisons were ice cold steel and her jailers were crystal clear, and she liked it better that way. But every day, regardless, she thought of a different life. Her father had never cared much about her, what if he'd simply given her up for adoption at birth? What if she'd been taken in by a normal loving family – no manipulation, no hatred. No lies. Maybe then she could have experienced this sensation of warmth and safety, at the thought of coming home.

She hadn't felt it in years. And she knew that, no matter how lucky she got in life from now on, she would never be home again. _Home_ had burned out into flames from the second _HIS_ promises had died. Home had been reduced to ashes. Reduced to a stupid meaningless locket.

She closed her eyes, and thought of _HIM_ unwillingly. She pictured someone next to _HIM_; a woman, not a girl. Not a _child_. Then she reopened her eyes and told herself that one day it would be her turn to move on; that, one day, she'd finally let go of that necklace which she could no longer bear to wear. A time where she wouldn't cry herself to sleep seven nights a week, aching for the monster who haunted her. Aching for the day where she would finally be free.


End file.
